It’s not easy to keep still with a pair of steel chopsticks chasing a sliver of slippery peach over my pussy, but I do my best. I concentrate on controlling my breathing, even though the feathery touch makes my stomach muscles flutter involuntarily. Another diner goes for a slice of strawberry balanced precariously over my nipple, capturing the sensitive nub between his chopsticks and tugging. I keep my eyes fixed demurely on the ceiling, repeating don’t move like a mantra in my mind, trying to ignore the growing heat between my legs and the wetness I can feel seeping from my melting core.
Who will break protocol first, I wonder? I don’t need to look around to feel Angela’s icy gaze fixing me like a tasty morsel in aspic, but her guests are less cowed by her iron rule, and no doubt soon one of these fine gentlemen will let his chopsticks stray to dip a succulent tidbit in the hot sauce trickling from my pussy. Maybe he’ll stroke them between my lips, glazing me with my own juice, then slide them inside me… don’t move I warn myself, fighting to keep my eyes open, drowsy with the simmering tension of my frustrated arousal.
Of course I’ve heard stories of Nyotaimori* or “body sushi” but I always imagined it was just a tourist gimmick. Trust my dominant on-off mistress Angela to put her own unique spin on it. Deciding against traditional sashimi (raw fish heated to body temperature by my skin sounds like a bad idea) she has opted for fruit instead, cunningly carved and beautifully displayed by our foodie friend Stephen, who has put his skills to good use teasing my libido on previous occasions. I was a little dubious but somehow allowed Angela to cajole/bully me into being the centerpiece for one of her notorious dinner parties, and so here I am, trying my hardest to behave like a piece of living art rather than the increasingly horny little slut you all know I really am.
I hadn’t bargained for how erotic this would feel. First, Angela’s gorgeous submissive, Isla, scrubbed and buffed and polished every inch of my skin. I was longing for her to lick me with her talented tongue, but clearly Angela had forbidden her to do so. By the time they positioned me on the table, naked and buzzing with anticipation, I was already deeply aroused. Then Stephen carefully placed each piece of ice-cold fruit on my body, finishing just as the guests started to arrive. I could hear from the babble of voices that the female guests were being shown into a separate room, while the men were ushered into this one, and I couldn’t help speculating as to what new debauchery Angela had planned. Naturally each of them took time to study me head to toe, exclaiming over the clever designs; I felt their eyes linger, even as I kept mine fixed determinedly on a point above me, attempting detachment.
Now my resolve is fading fast. Every cool slice of melon, every juicy piece of papaya seems designed to stimulate a sensitive spot on my receptive skin, but it’s the scratch and tickle of the chopsticks that’s really driving me crazy. I can hear it in the guests’ voices as the champagne starts to take effect and they grow more careless, letting the implements drag over my tender flesh, deliberately pinching and rubbing. They are not allowed to touch me except with their chopsticks, but the unyielding metal sticks are goading me as effectively as a dozen hands, tapping and teasing.
A piece of pineapple is placed between my lips and I suck on it before swallowing, the burst of juice intensely sweet. The tip of a chopstick strokes deliberately over my pussy lips; it presses into the top of my slit, my wetness easing the way. I part my legs imperceptibly, hoping Angela won’t notice. The chopstick slides further, angled downward to glide along the slippery channel between my pussy lips. I don’t know who’s wielding it, and that adds to my excitement. It presses inward, triggering an urgent throbbing in my clit.
I gasp involuntarily as another chopstick takes the direct approach, following the line of my parted thighs to their juncture, dipping into the creamy opening to my pussy. It stirs around, making me quiver. My mantra abruptly transforms from don’t move to an insistent fuck me!
The diner indulges my silent plea at last, pushing the chopstick into my juice-slick cunt, circling it around my sugar walls until my thighs fall open and my back arches. It’s delicious but I need more… when a second joins it, scissoring apart to hold me open, it’s more maddening than satisfying. The metal chopsticks churn around and around, skating over my G-spot, sliding in and out in a poor imitation of the cock I’m craving so badly. I feel a third thrust into me and I wonder through my lustful haze if they will add more, enough to fill me, to stretch me wide and fuck me as I need.
Or better yet, will Angela feed me to these wolves in gentlemen’s clothing? Suddenly I picture them ravaging me with their hands and mouths, crushed fruit exploding its juice over my skin as cocks push hungrily into my mouth and pussy, the tangy flavor of cum mingling with the sweetness on my tongue as I suck and swallow…
“Enough!” calls Angela imperiously; and I’m suddenly left empty, untouched, bereft, as the chopsticks withdraw. I’m shaking, hovering on the brink of climax, desperate for penetration. How like Angela to leave me hanging, ready to beg.
She’s not always a cruel mistress though. She might not be about to share me with a bunch of ravening men, but Isla is instructed to help me down from the table, and away from their grasp. And as she leads me out of the room, she whispers to me that we have permission to join the ladies for a feast of our own…
* Nyotaimori or “body sushi” is the practice of serving food from the body of a naked woman (or Nantaimori for a man). It’s said to be an ancient samurai practice that developed alongside the geisha tradition, and is considered an art form by some, a degrading and decadent practice by others. Just Angela’s style.
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